Wrapped Around His Finger
by Driftwood Ships and Monuments
Summary: Nezumi reflects on the promises he made and the decision of cutting his hair.


**I wrote this while driving with my family on a four day car ride to the other side of the country–which surprisingly is not as long as you would think–and decided to toss it up into the 'ole Doc Manager and post this piece of crap after I got my own hair cut and started wondering what Nezumi would do if he got his pony-tail chopped off...I was hoping this would be longer when I typed it up, but in reality about three or four pages on paper is only about half a page on . Enjoy~**

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><p>The knob was a flimsy, crass thing that didn't lock when he turned it; painted a florescent chipped gold that Nezumi guessed was an ill-fernanced attempt to brighten up the depressing looking place. The walls were a dark, cranberry crimson rimmed with a gold hexagonal net-like pattern that began in the middle of the panel and spread across the paper till half-way between the ceiling and at the end of the intricate, almost Arabian-styled design.<p>

There was a large, off-white bed resting in the corner that took up almost the whole room and obviously the most expensive object in the one-bedroom complex. The sheets were clean and untainted with neither dust nor grime, causing the young grey-eyed nam to wonder silently if the impeccable mattress was used for more than just the common disheveled criminal.

He gave a small grunt of approval from the back of his throat before dumping what few items he had stashed in a burlap sack at the foot of the bed. Despite the stray dogs, Nezumi knew that if he played his cars right this shabby little hotel in the gutter of slums could grant him a suitable resting place, if only for the few remaining hours he stayed here for.

Turning his metallic-silver hued eyes towards the mirror hanging above the breakable excuse of a dresser, he couldn't help but comment internally about the state of his hair. Over the two-year period between now and an one-chance encounter with a whiny little airhead, his dark silken locks–that had rested down to about his collar-bone then–was now dangerously gathering around past his shoulders, some uneven strands in the back caressing between the base of his shoulder blades. It was untidy, and roguish looking. Then with a small jolt he realized he would need something to tie it up in–having lost his previous hair-tie in a skirmish with a drug lord outside the border of the West Block–if he couldn't find something to cut it off with. He would have very well preferred to use the new-found jackknife sheathed with a string around his hip, but he wasn't sure if it would damage the blade or not–and he most likely wouldn't have done a very worthy job of it to begin with even if he tried.

The only problem wold be that if–when was the more wiser probability–if he got into a fight, either his victim or assaultant could easily use it against him. And more than Nezumi preferred to admit...he knew how much it pained a person to have their hair tugged on so forcefully you were left with it more than a few inches shorter. Knowing though, that he wouldn't get anywhere by just mulling over the millions of possibilities in his mind, he made the bombarding mental decision to go threw the latter right then and there.

_Think of it as a welcome back present for the delicate little flower when I come back to save his babyish little hide..._he thought with a smug sense of satisfaction while taking his switch-blade in hand, craving it nimbly open before turning his full attention to the half-cracked slab of glass in front of him.

Taking a large handful of his dark locks in his free hand he smoothed out the strands between his fingers, making care to prevent any loose ends from coming undone with eyes locked on the mirror. And for the smallest fraction of the smallest second, Nezumi suddenly felt like closing his eyes.

He pushed the feeling away immediately, of course, reminding himself with a small sense of self-loathing that he had gone through much worse than cutting this hair–and he was a coward for even thinking of such a proposition.

It was then that he set to work.

As he carefully began shearing off the long, messy locks, Nezumi couldn't help but feel somewhat different as the pressure gradually began to leave his scalp. And, he noticed, with a peculiar pang of raw pleasure that it was quite of a relief to not have all the extra weight on his head, and to not feel the obnoxious tickle of hair brush against his neck and shoulders when he turned to admire his finished handiwork.

Even though it was still uneven in some places, and he may or may not look as though he had just come crawling out of the gutter, Nezumi was still relieved to have it all gone; rest in gin a petite little pile at his feet. Thankfully it was over, however, and that was all that mattered.

Much like his severed off contacts with Inukashi, Rikiga, and even Sion, Nezumi found, that much like slicing off his hair, that this could symbolize a fresh start. Though he had promised Sion that they would meet again, maybe this could represent that promises–no matter now valiantly spoken or courageously the participants fought to keep it glued together–were meant to be broken.

_Nah, I'm pretty sure you'll be crawling back to the stupid little airhead one way or another..._Nezumi thought with the smallest of smirks, turning his back to the mirror and towards the bed. _He's got you wrapped around his tiny little finger anyway...Just get some sleep..._

He flopped face-first onto the mattress, letting the more mindful side of his brain to untether the bonds of consciousness to the rest of his body, and promptly did just that.


End file.
